


Heil Voldemort?

by comradrr



Category: Harry - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Durmstrang, Hogwarts, Koldovstoretz (Harry Potter), Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comradrr/pseuds/comradrr
Summary: Son of Voldemort's Followers! With the ring he was going to give Dagon as a gift, gold and with the family crest on his chest, he lay on his father's lap, until he was helped by his guardian. He was no longer the same tolerant boy, tears and empiricism hit him like a dagger covered with the most disguised poppy flower. It hurt, but quietly. He would keep that ring for life, certainly.
Kudos: 2





	Heil Voldemort?

It was already the most lugubrious night that any climate could have in that horrible location, the tall castle that stood in the center of the Serbian capital, imposing, Gothic and totally sober. Such were the inhabitants of the Karadjodjervitch residence. Mirosvena and Dagon were the patriarchs of that den of dead fantasies. On rare occasions, when the bratty commoners dared to enter into the dead gardens of the royal family of that end of the world in Eastern Europe, a glow of hope for the former Death Eaters ravaged the entire household, even giving them such cold in the spine, worthy of a beautiful hypothermia.

Dagon stayed in his private library, dealing with the most diverse matters that a former king and now a Prince, the duke's grain of no soybeans could have. It had been a long time since Serbia had fallen from grace, to which adjectives are in charge of the Nothing Highness's, of communism. The headquarters of the Ministry of Magic was no longer in that sordid place full of arabesques and rococo stars, but in a huge and immense and colossal, and did I say huge? So, building. It followed a façade similar to the minimalist architecture that the Supreme Soviet liked, which, even bringing socialist glory, still had the refinement and the disappointing Russian sobriety.

Let us not pay attention to the patriarchs for the time being, but to their children, heirs of a portion of acres in southern Estonia and owners of the haunted castle, which in fact belonged to the Serbian authoritarian government. Not even like the Karadjodjervitch in times of their rise in the elite and in power, in general. Both older children, Dmitri and Pavlo, were playing, dressed in suede overcoats, happy with life, bogging both of their faces in the mud, in the mud that it brought after autumn. They were not yet old enough to enter Durmstrang, the respected Eastern European school of pureblood witches. There, the Karadjodjervitch reigned as majesty once was. They were the main lords of donation, with the enormous magical treasure they had left, the result of an exploitation of the elf traffic and the sale of dark articles. But there is nothing left for them to do without illegality, certainly, Dagon also had several studios, actually of his wife, even in Diagon Alley.

''COME YOUR DUMB MUGGLE!'', Shouted Dmitri, as he threw a large and massive rock at Pavlo.

''I told you not to call me that, Dima. Dad and mom will be mad later! ’’, Pavlo took another piece of stone.

Both almost killed each other almost all day. They hadn't created enough self-education that they could cease their most diverse yearnings. As liking guillotine at the nannies who had already taken care of them, almost all dead. Hell would be existed, if they had had a muggle nanny. Today, there would not even be a phalanx crumb left to mention its existence. They were both twins, eleven years old, a year before the call to Durmstrang. They were anxious, glorious, they could finally drop in the face of Milos, a poor youngest of eight years old, how powerful they were and how Dagon would care more for them than for that withered creature, who still slept with an elf at his side, who still had the goodness to see Muggles as his own, even though he was brought up with a library full of books like: '' The Disenchantment of Pigs: How to Tame Muggles Without Noticing '' or '' Wizard Darwinism: The Muggles in Slaves in the Future? '', Books that Mephistopheles, the guardian, the godfather of Milos, had gifted to the boy's parents.

In itself, there is not much to talk about from that scene except that the youngest was stuck in the mud, Dmitri and Pavlo had stuck his heads in a hole used by the elfs to poop, who knew what he had in that den of radioactive danger.

Dagon just looked out the window, did nothing. His private library overlooked the garden. His motto was that those who died were nothing more than ascendants to Muggles. He was one of Dolohov's great fellow Death Eaters, he took Azkaban's maximum sentence after the overthrow of the Dark Lord, however, he managed, I don't know with such a temper, to escape the horrible penalty that awaited him, while Mirosvena ... Your Highness was more concerned with looking presentable at afternoon tea to her pureblood friends. Even if they had abdicated the throne, they were still the main family of the Ministry, even with those communist who came from Russia, respected the Karadjodjervitch's. Myths said that they were one of the first who had built the first house in that place.

Or who stained the scarlet wall first.

Milos had always been that friendly person of family, that intimate person with whom you could invite yourself for tea, to play ball and catch the toys that fell in front of the property. He did not differ from dirty to purreblood, nor did he want to kill those despicable maids that the Karadjodjervitch had. They stole the ancient Chinese silver, the jade chisels, without Dagon or Mirosvena coming. They didn't care, they didn't like the rabble either, they only cared about this since that fateful day.

Everything has an abrupt change in which we take directions that we would not like it, in which we have visions that we never thought we could have.

It was not a calm night, it was not a calm climate in that place, Dagon and Mirosvena were in the Higness's room, different from the children's living room, which was in the opposite direction. In question, it was the birthday of the Grand Prince of Serbia, Your Royal Highness, Dagon Mikhailovski Karadjodjervitch. They were celebrating abruptly, showered with magical drinks that were not found in the land of Boleyn. Everything so fleeting, so suitable, that they did not seem to carry a thousand Muggle souls in their hands, in what became known as the Muggle Yugoslav Genocide.

Until they heard it, thousands of hands beat on the entrance thresholds, glowing hands, wanting revenge, vendetta for what had happened to their families in the first wizarding war. Vendetta for the stakes that Dagon had placed in front of the Ministry, with fathers and mothers, children and mixed-race babies. He had not given time, everything had been too fast, the drunken state in which they were both found, they managed only to utter:

''CRUC-'', with the indicator raised, but nothing worked as it should. 

It was already late, one of the aurors, or retired, raised his wand and hit Dagon in the back, with an Avada Kedavra that soft, with his eyes plastered towards the fireplace, had fallen. The sound of the splintering of his wine glass had been heard.

''Don't do anything to me. I was cursed with Imperius!'', She was kneeling to the mob of wizards that surrounded her, forming almost a half moon with four hundred, maybe even more!

''Where are the others?'', Dagon’s murderer had asked Mirosvena, placing his leg over the poor woman’s throat.

''I dont know! Please. Do not do anything with them, they are all I have. ’’, Mirosvena constantly asked for and paying homage, she wanted to apologize for the actions they both did.

All in unison shouted, their last feat done. They were tired, tired of the excuses that everyone gave them about their families. That justice could not be applied to them because they were under the effect of curses. But the taste of sadism overpowered everything and they said:

'‘Artériuns!’ ’, All the four hundred people, all from the first row, from the second, from that mob hit Mirosvena with the disappointing spell. It had been cut into pieces, but they were careful to leave it with its last sigh.

The auror threw another Avada Kedavra at her, killing it for good.

They were both standing, looking at the fireplace.

However, Milos, that witch with just eight years old , looked and witnessed all that fateful thing. Behind the fireplace, with a ruthless face that would like to die, he had waited for everyone there, waited for that rabble, that pestilent people to leave so he could say his parents' last goodbye.


End file.
